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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26084812">A country in your eyes</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosa_himmelblau/pseuds/rosa_himmelblau'>rosa_himmelblau</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Roadhouse Blues [23]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Wiseguy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 03:29:12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,054</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26084812</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosa_himmelblau/pseuds/rosa_himmelblau</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Sonny can't stop fighting what he really wants.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Roadhouse Blues [23]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1069713</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>A country in your eyes</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"Hold still!" Sonny said sharply, squeezing his arm. Then, more gently, "I gotta get this dirt cleaned off."</p><p>Vinnie held still while Sonny scrubbed at his gashed elbow with a wet wash cloth. He tried to think if they had anything to put on a scrape, but he didn't think they did. His mother used Mercurochrome on his cuts. Did they even make that anymore? It had mercury in it, didn't it? And it stung.</p><p>Wash cloths they had, plenty of them; cheap, white ones Vinnie bought because you could bleach the blood out. Sonny always just threw them away when they got stained; he'd throw this one in the trash, Vinnie could just bet on it. But Vinnie put them in the wash. And when Sonny did the laundry—and sometimes Sonny did do the laundry, when they couldn't find a place to have their laundry done for them—when Sonny did the laundry, he washed the wash cloths Vinnie had included.</p><p>There was a lot of blood in their relationship. Usually it came from one of their noses. Today had been a fluke; Sonny had punched him unexpectedly in the parking garage, and he'd hit the ground and scraped up his arm and hand.</p><p>And now Sonny was bandaging him up, the way he always bandaged him when he needed it. He never accepted Vinnie's offers of quid pro quo. Of course, Vinnie didn't punch Sonny out of the clear blue sky. And why was that again? Oh, yeah, he was too tired, too apathetic, too so many more things he was too tired and apathetic to even bother to list in his head.</p><p>Vinnie wondered why Sonny did it—punched him, that is. Some of it was frustration, but some of it was something Vinnie couldn't define. He had the feeling some of it was because of moments like these, moments when he could both touch Vinnie with sweet affection, and look him right in the eye, nothing hidden, nothing to be ashamed of in what he was doing or what he was feeling. He was just helping out a friend, no need for denial, no need to pretend he wasn't doing what he was doing. This was really happening, and if Vinnie mentioned it later, Sonny wouldn't look at him like he was insane.</p><p>What would happen if he did start punching Sonny for no reason? Vinnie tried to picture that, tried to picture hitting Sonny and having him go down, get back up, and do nothing.<i> It would never happen. If Sonny could get back up, he'd hit back. If he couldn't get back up, he'd trip me. </i> The idea of Sonny experiencing this lethargy was inconceivable. It was as inconceivable to Vinnie as him suddenly not having it. If Vinnie could summon up the energy to punch Sonny, Sonny would punch back, they'd have a fight, and everything would be fine.</p><p>Vinnie thought about this whole punching thing and how there was no way to explain it to anybody. If he tried, it would come out sounding abusive.<i> Sonny punches me for no real reason—and I let him because . . . because . . . ? Because on some level there <b>is</b> a reason, and I understand it. Anyway, I'm not afraid of him, he doesn't beat me up, he doesn't threaten me. The only thing I'm afraid of is him abandon—</i></p><p>
  <i>The only thing I'm afraid of is him leaving me behind, and he's never once said he was going to do that.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>This isn't rationalization.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Is it? Isn't saying it isn't rationalization the first sign you're rationalizing?</i>
</p><p>Vinnie thought about it. Sonny punched him out of anger, and frustration, but he knew perfectly well Vinnie could punch back if he wanted. Hell, Sonny liked it when he punched back. He'd only started doing it when Vinnie finally got strong enough to spar with. Sonny didn't bully him—well, not exactly. He pushed him, and pulled him, he yelled at him and he ordered him around, and when Vinnie said he didn't want to do something, Sonny ignored what he was saying and made him do it anyway. If Sonny needed his cooperation, or if he just wanted it, he turned on the charm, he flirted with Vinnie, he made him laugh, and if Vinnie argued with him, Sonny rolled his eyes, shook his head, laughed at him. Once he'd tickled him.</p><p>But Sonny had never hit him, or threatened to hit him, to get him to do something. That was kind of interesting, wasn't it?</p><p>And none of it made this an abusive relationship. It was just a typical relationship with Sonny Steelgrave.</p><p>
  <i>Nobody else would ever understand this. Yeah, well, are you planning on telling anybody else? Yeah, right, like who would I tell? Hey, here's an idea: if I come up with somebody to tell, then I'll start worrying about <b>what</b> to tell them.</i>
</p><p>A bizarre thought crossed his mind:<i> If Theresa had married him, she would have gotten the same thing, except for the punches. Her, he'd probably pick up and carry, if he needed her someplace she didn't want to go. And there probably would’ve been punches, only Sonny wouldn't have been the one throwing them.</i></p><p>"Do you feel concussed?" Sonny asked.</p><p>"You mean besides where you hit me? No."</p><p>Sonny nodded, but kept feeling his scalp. "How’s your arm feel?”</p><p>“It feels scraped,” Vinnie said, trying not to laugh at Sonny. “Which it what it is. It’s not broken or anything.”</p><p>Sonny nodded again. “Do we have any band-aids? I couldn't find any." He sounded a little distracted. Vinnie was pretty sure he knew why.</p><p>"In the medicine cabinet," Vinnie said. "Where were you looking?"</p><p>Sonny didn't answer; he was still running his fingers though Vinnie's hair. Vinnie just kept quiet. He wanted to kiss Sonny, or Sonny to kiss him, or something. But Sonny just stroked his hair, pretending he was searching for bumps.</p><p>"You probably don't need a band-aid anyway," Sonny said, abruptly going back to examining Vinnie's arm. "The bleeding's stopped."  Sonny smiled at him, smugly, as though he'd personally caused Vinnie's blood to clot.</p><p>"Thanks," Vinnie said, and there was no irony in either his voice or the voice in his head. Sonny gave him a quick, affectionate kiss on the cheek.</p>
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